


Crazy Ways Are Evident

by BJ (darali_starscream)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Face Sitting, Rough Sex, Squirting, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darali_starscream/pseuds/BJ
Summary: Just a nice little fantasy-- you, Dean, a hot house, and a stereo.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Crazy Ways Are Evident

**Author's Note:**

> An exercise in pure self-indulgence. But hey, isn’t that what fanfics are for? All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

“I thought it never got _hot_ here,” Dean bitches.

“Climate change,” you shrug. He’s right though. Holy sheezits it’s hot, inching up towards triple digits and not a dry heat either. At these latitudes air conditioning isn’t a necessity for all but a few weeks out of the year, so most homes don’t have HVAC. People in apartments and small houses get by with window units. The old Victorian barn your parents inherited from Great Aunt Gwendolyn? Not even. Cool baths, ceiling fans, and breezeways can only do so much. You’re at the mercy of Mother Nature.

Something cold presses into your hand. Throwing Dean a smile, you crack the can of Mountain Dew. Jesus that’s good, so cold ice crystals have just started forming on the inside of the can. You have rules about this kind of work, handed down from your mother and her father before her-- there must be a cooler full of pop, there must be a portable stereo tuned to oldies or classic rock, dinner must either be cheap pizza or hot dogs, there must be beer in the fridge for sipping after everyone’s knocked off for the day. So it is written, so it must be. Dean takes the opportunity to rub a handful of ice over his sweaty face. Might’ve cooled _him_ off, but now _you’re_ feeling the heat.

You forget sometimes about your dad’s fibbing skills. Clear out the attic, he said. Stay over the summer and just pay utilities, he said. Maybe strip the old wallpaper out of the downstairs bedrooms and get rid of that carpet in the living room, he said. What a schmuck you are. You haven’t worked this hard since you were an undergrad. When the Winchester brothers arrived to help pack up and store some of Great Aunt Gwendolyn’s -- the name is practically a title, it should come with its own trumpet flourish -- magic junk, you’d fallen all over yourself offering them a place to crash for a few weeks. Good company, easy on the eyes, handy with tools, free help with the book you’re researching ( _Haunts and Spirits: A History Of Occultism In Colonial North America_ , co-authored by Doctor You, Ph.D., loremaster, occasional Hunter, euchre player, and maker of passable Texas chili). All good.

Then Sam decamped, saying he wanted to spend some time with a friend. Named Eileen. Whose name Sam couldn’t say without a goofy little smile. They’re Up North, taking the opportunity to do some camping after dealing with a poltergeist. You hope they’re having a good time. Pictured Rocks is beautiful this time of year.

Leaving you and Dean, alone, in a big empty house, with no air conditioning, in the middle of the hottest July on record. It’s totally because of the heat that you’re wearing overalls with the legs cut off mid-thigh and a sports top with no shirt. Of course your hair’s pinned into a just-fucked bedhead twist, otherwise it’d lay down your back in a sweaty mat. Your legs . . . okay, you don’t have an innocent reason for your freshly waxed legs. Beach trip sometime before the boys head back to Kansas? Yeah, that’ll work.

Dean’s down to a T-shirt and jeans, the shirt sweated translucent and the jeans snug around the long muscles of his legs. You’d damn near dropped a paint can on your foot watching him wipe his face dry with his shirt, revealing a heart-stopping patch of bare chest and belly in the process. That same night he’d turned his nose up at pizza, disappeared with his Chevy for an hour, puttered in the kitchen for another hour, and presented you with the best goddamned hamburger in the world. _Payback for the chocolate silk pie,_ he’d said, with that grin that makes your heart dance.

He’s definitely capital-I Interested. Sparks are flying. But apart from some lingering looks . . . a light caress of your leg as he spots you on the ladder . . . an exchange of shoulder rubs . . . an evening sitting on the couch with his head in your lap and your fingers in his hair . . . Dean’s been a perfect gentleman (the bastard). So it’s your move. Hmm, what to do, what to do? You are not letting him leave without trying him on for size, and that’s final.

“Dance break!” you blurt, taking the roll of Blu-Tape out of Dean’s hand and pulling him under the ceiling fan.

Dean frowns. “I don’t dance.”

“Tough shit. Dance break!” You lean into him, kicking one leg high on the _YEAH!_ in Kickstart My Heart. Dean balances you easily. His body picks up the beat and a bright smile breaks across his face. Mighty long time between dances, you think.

It works. As the afternoon shades into evening the personal space between you disappears. Every little while you or Dean will say, “Dance break!” and pull the other close. You both smell like sweat and paint and hot fabric, an earthy smell that settles into your brain stem. The radio gods are on your side today. Lots of _suggestive_ stuff in the air. The DJ who played Pour Some Sugar On Me and Her Strut back-to-back’s getting a thank-you card next week.

Finally you stand and inspect the day’s labor, a fresh coat of Summer Sky Blue drying on the walls, baseboards and window frames stripped of paint and stained to bring out the beautiful red maple. Miles better than the old butterfly wallpaper and white high gloss slopped on the woodwork. The sun went down a while ago, bringing a beautifully clear, starry night. A fresh breeze puffs through the open windows, a sip of relief from the day’s relentless heat.

Dean inspects the work and nods. An arm drapes around your back, hand pressing to your bare waist. “Looks great.”

The radio plays five precise notes on a guitar, and a melody begins. You know this one well, and you know Dean does too-- music for some low-down _dirty_ dancing. This time there’s no shyness, no standing on dignity. His chest and belly mash against yours as his arm pulls you close. So hot, so fucking hot.

Dean bends his knees a little, matching your height, moss green eyes half-closed. Your bodies sway together. This is a dance he knows, and you know enough to take his lead. That leaves you free to just _feel_. Your skin is pulsing with your heartbeat, hot, sensitive. The steady pressure of Dean’s hand on the small of your back makes you melt inside. His other hand slides down your hip and settles on your ass, kneading into the muscle beneath. Lower, down your leg, lifting your knee, opening a space between your legs. Dean’s hips fit neatly into that space and oh my, the man’s packing much more than a hammer in his pants.

You need more naked. Dean’s damp T-shirt bunches in your grip as you untuck and pull it up over his head. Bare to the waist he’s sex personified far as you’re concerned, all ropy muscles bunching and jumping as he moves you both to the music, those patrician lips just parted. You want those lips on you, all over you.

Dean dips you, the move putting his denim-covered erection right where you’re burning. Your head drops back. The two sticks holding up your hair slip out and clitter to the floor. The look in his eyes as he pulls you upright and your hair unwinds is dark, predatory, _hungry_. You know right then you’re not going to have it in you to deny him anything tonight. Playing with fire is one of your vices, and there’s always the chance you’ll go up in flames.

If that’s how you go out, write WORTH IT on your gravestone.

You fit yourselves together, Dean’s knee in between your legs. Hot skin, sprinkled with hair and sticky with half-dried sweat, slides under your hands as you pet his chest. Overalls were a _good_ choice for seduction wear, you decide as Dean cups and fondles a tit through the thick support fabric of your top. It’s like a shortcut to naked.

Robert Plant’s wail makes every hair on your body stand up. Dean’s too, gooseflesh ripples under your fingers. His arms lock tight around your back. “Up!”

You hop and clamp your legs around Dean’s waist. There’s no more space, anywhere. He fills the world. Gentle fingers worm into your hair and finish taking the twist apart. He’s hard, so very hard, you need to get fucked by that body so very bad--

“God _damn_ it!” Dean hisses. “Are you on the pill?”

“Huh?”

“I don’t have any condoms.” The words make sense, but at the same time they so very fucking _don’t_. You writhe, grinding over Dean's crotch. He snaps, “ _Are you on the fucking pill?!?_ ”

“Depo shot,” you manage. “Couple weeks ago.” The song's final delicate notes shiver in the air. What comes on next? You don’t know and you don’t care. Dean’s finally, _finally,_ using that sinful mouth on you. Tongue rubbing against yours, lips on your face, teeth scraping on your neck. Under your mouth his skin is salty and clean and hot. “Fuck me,” you whine into his ear, soft and pleading. “Please, fuck me.”

Easily as though your weight meant nothing, Dean turns and walks down the hall. Both stronger and smarter than he lets on-- he ignores the stairs and goes for the downstairs guestroom and the nearest bed, tossing you on the mattress with a _zing!_ of bedsprings. He works on your boots as you work on your overalls.

Teamwork makes the dream work. Dean pulls off your overalls and panties, you whip off your top. Dean’s eyes go buggy as your tits tumble free. In all modesty, most men do that when you turn them loose.

“Get those pants off and _fuck_ me!” you plead.

“Can’t,” Dean says, climbing onto the bed with you. “Gotta eat your pussy first.”

Oh no, we are _done_ with foreplay. Every nerve in your groin aches, and Dean’s packing the cure inside those thrift store Wranglers. You open your mouth to make these points. Instead you damn near swallow your own tongue.

Dean’s got a very direct idea of foreplay. It involves tongue kisses straight up into your pussy, lips kneading your clit, the edges of teeth right where you’re softest. “Tastes so fucking good,” Dean moans into your cunt. “Been dreaming about this for days.” You can’t breathe, there’s no air but there must be because you scream when Dean’s fingers get involved. Your cunt clenches around him and he adds another finger, forcing you open so _fucking_ deliciously.

“Please,” you beg-- the little shit, you don’t know how but he could _tell_ you were about to lose it and _slowed down._ “Want you. Please.”

“Want my cock?”

“ _Yes,”_ you moan.

That leer. That filthy, filthy leer. “Be a good girl, stay just like that.” Dean stands and goes to work on his boots, not taking his eyes off you. Something in your chest unfurls; he’s just as much a slave to his libido as you are to yours right now. So you make it worse, one hand stroking your pussy and the other pinching a nipple. Dean’s eyes go wide and his fingers damn near get knotted in bootlaces.

“MotheraGod,” he breathes as you stick out your tongue and angle your tit. Get it just right and there. Dean has to catch his balance on the edge of the bed as your lips close around your own nipple. “I’m gonna shoot in my pants if you don’t knock it off.”

“Then quit screwing around and _fuck_ me already,” you say.

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbles, tearing his eyes off you and working the tangle of boots and jeans off his legs. You flop back flat on your back, arms flung wide, taking deep breaths, holding yourself still. You’re close, so very hot and _close_ , and you don’t want to come unless it’s with Dean inside you.

Dean finally gets himself naked and now _your_ eyes are going buggy. It’s not fair to the other men of the world, is your first thought, that a man that fucking beautiful should have a dick to match. So _thick_. Massive. The thought of a fuck from that makes you clench, equal parts anticipation and terror.

You make room as Dean climbs onto the bed, crawling up between your legs. You jump halfway to Heaven when he rubs a hand up through your pussy, getting a palmful of your wet. Dean laughs as he kisses you. Through the blood pounding in your ears you can hear the _obscene_ sluicing noise of him slicking his cock up with your juices. You look down as he takes another handful and oh my God, the sight of Dean jerking his dick is fucking sublime. Hardcore pornography by way of Renaissance sculpture.

Dean grunts, squeezing himself at the base. “You see what you’re doing to me?”

“Me?” you demand. “I’ve been changing my underwear twice a day for a week! I don’t take those cold showers just to rinse off!”

“Honey,” Dean says, fist still clenched around an erection that looks so hard it hurts, “ _you are not helping_.”

“Then for God’s sake get down here and--"

“Hold your pussy open. Perfect, just like that,” he praises, propping himself overtop you on one arm and guiding his cock through your pussy lips with the other. Hot, stone-hard, wet with precum. Dean finds where your body opens and presses himself in, crown, ridge, and shaft. Slow, a millimeter at a time. Your mouth drops open. Wide, full, he stretches you to fit, close as a glove.

 _“Fuck_ , so tight,” Dean pants. “Fit me so fucking good.”

“ _Please,_ baby,” you breathe against Dean’s neck. “More.”

Dean tips your head up. “Look at me. Right here,” he points to his eyes. He withdraws, a slow slide away, his eyes almost crossing. Then he thrusts back, giving you all that cock. Thick, heavy, you’re going to feel him for days.

You somehow find it in you to wrap your legs around his waist. Whatever he’s looking for, he finds it. Dean starts a slow, rolling motion that rubs the fat head of his cock right _there_. The sensation makes you whine for more, makes you cling, your fingernails digging skin from Dean’s back. It’s _glorious_ , almost too much and not nearly enough, it feels so good, if Heaven isn’t like this you don’t wanna go.

“Shit,” Dean pants, something breaking his smooth pace. “Oh _fuck_ me,” he moans. One hand goes between your legs. Blunt fingertips find your clit and you screech. The stimulation makes your cunt clamp down on Dean. He fucks up against the squeeze, grunting and moaning in harmony with you. “Fuck, fuck,” the pitch of his voice spikes upwards, “ _fuck--”_

And he’s gone. Pulled out, withdrawn, _gone._ Every nerve in your body shudders and weeps. Something warm splats on your stomach as Dean jerks himself to finish. You grind your palms against your closed eyelids and yell your frustration to the ceiling.

“Jesus, honey,” Dean manages to huff out as he catches his breath. “I’m sorry, I--" You start to cry. It’s just not fucking _fair._ Dean finds a box of Kleenex on the nightstand and wipes his mess off you. So considerate. You could kill him, really you could. Four good hard thrusts from the orgasm of a lifetime. Instead you’re stuck with the girly version of blue balls. Nothing to do but catch your breath, stagger your aching cunt upstairs to your room, and hope you can get yourself off hard enough to sleep. The reasonable adult you pops out of her cave long enough to tell you you’re being childish, Dean can’t help it if he’s not perfectly in tune with you on the first screw.

You pull yourself together enough to roll away. Strong hands and arms pull you back, turn you onto your frontside. “Oh. No. You. _Don’t_ ,” Dean pants, making every word distinct.

“Dean don’t worry about it, I--”

“Up on your knees. _Now.”_

Shivering, you do as you’re told. Big hands, rough from the day’s work and wet with sex, pose you just so, back arched and thighs spread wide. Your pussy throbs and burns, open to the air. Something-- what the hell?

You look down and see Dean’s head coming to rest between your legs. He kisses the little pad of fat at the top of your crotch. “Been dreaming about this too,” he says, “you riding my face with,” he kisses, gently, coaxingly, “this,” kisses right where you ache, “ _perfect_ ,” gives your clit the softest kitten lick, “pussy.”

Where he promptly buries himself. Flat on your back his mouth was good. In this position, you don’t know why, it feels _amazing._ The embers of your ruined orgasm smolder back to life. Your hips grind and shimmy down onto Dean’s face.

A teasing finger presses to your perineum and travels back. A thrill of something different rattles up your backbone as it presses against your _other_ hole, rubbing gently over and around. More fingers sink into your cunt and rub against that spot that makes you _hungry._ It’s too much, too much. Trying to get away makes it worse. Dean won’t let you escape and trying makes him cling to you tighter and work you harder and oh _shit_ , something’s happening hasn’t happened for years.

“Dean!” you cry, explosions ripping through your guts, “Dean stop! I’m gonna--” too late. Some Overload valve in your body trips and hot fluid jets all over Dean’s face. His arms clamp over your thighs and his mouth seals over your clit, little grunts of surprise rattling straight into your nerves. It doesn’t stop, you just keep coming and coming, every cell in your body shuddering itself to pieces.

You cling to the bed’s headboard, your nervous system shot to shit. Vaguely you feel Dean work his way out from between your legs, probably to go find a washcloth. You damn near _drowned_ him, for fuck’s sake. Explain _that_ one to Sam.

“Wow,” you hear Dean panting behind you. He presses up against your back and turns your head for a kiss. He stinks like, well, _you_. Tastes that way too. Dean shifts and no way, that cannot be his stone-hard cock sliding between your soaked pussy lips. “Still want my cock?”

“Huh?” That doesn’t figure, no man goes from blowing a load to fully erect in . . . however long you were riding his face.

“Not done with you yet,” he says against your lips. “But if you’re tapping out--”

“Fuck _you_.”

“I,” Dean proclaims, deep and raspy, “have not yet _begun_ to fuck.”

“Now would be a great time to start,” you snark back.

With that, Dean’s cock shoves into you. Oh shit-- everything’s swollen and sensitive and he feels even heavier and fits even closer. “Oh my _fuck_ ,” you whine. Your hands go right back on the headboard and hold fast.

With a hand rubbing your clit and another squeezing your tit, Dean’s fucking you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do in this life. The Hunter grapevine’s buzzed for years with gossip about Dean’s skills in bed Sweet Jesus, the rumors don’t even come close. He’s panting filth in your ear, how good you feel, how hot it looks watching your body wrap around his cock, how much he loved it when you lost it and came all over him. He’s fucking you so hard you can almost feel your body splitting apart to get him closer. “More, please--" you cry.

It’s happening again, oh my God-- you come so hard you literally see stars. More hot fluid squirts out of you to flood down your thighs, splatter on the duvet. Dean's hands clamp on your waist, yanking you back to meet his thrusts, punching his cock up into you. It’s not ending, it keeps popping your nerves. You can feel Dean throughout your body. Shit, you can feel him to your fucking _fingertips,_ up your spine to the ends of your fucking _hair._ How is that even possible? He snaps his hips hard enough to jolt your knees up off the bed and goes still, moans spilling from his lips as his come spills inside you.

Dean’s cock softens and slips away. Liquid trickles out of you; juices, come, blood, who knows? You slump into a sort of bony puddle, winded, sweat-drenched, smelling of sex. Your sense of discretion’s totally gone. The first inane thing that pops from your mouth is, “I thought . . . getting your brains fucked out always . . . figure of speech.”

A weak, breathless laugh from Dean. “Zeppelin fan, a screamer, _and_ a squirter? You’re a gift from God, baby.”

Carefully, as feeling returns to your limbs, you turn and sit, back to the headboard. Dean’s sprawled across the foot of the bed, panting, flushed, shiny with sweat and come. As your eyes meet, Dean smiles almost shyly and sighs out a laugh. He looks so gorgeous lying there, part of you wants a round three. The _rest_ of you groans and throbs. Nineteen and horny was a while ago and sex is _off_ the table for now.

You shift around the soreness and grimace at the feel of wet fabric. “I think,” you say, groaning yourself off the bed to stand on wobbly faun legs, “I need a shower, four Advil, and about six hours of sleep.” Moving carefully, you shuffle to the door. A look over your shoulder and Dean’s rolled to his back, an arm over his eyes. “Off your ass and on your feet hot stuff, I need you to wash my hard-to-reach places.”

Dean takes his arm off his eyes and looks at you upside-down. “You’re not big enough to _have_ hard-to-reach places.”

“Well come on so I can wash yours. I’m not going to bed all sticky and neither are you.”

Dean runs a fingertip across his chest and brings it to his mouth. “Mmm. I _like_ being sticky.”

“We’ll get sticky again tomorrow. Promise.” You grab his wrist and Dean lets you tug him to the upstairs bathroom.

After a wonderful cool shower, you and Dean gently washing each others’ hard-to-reach places, you lay with you head pillowed on Dean’s chest. His fingers toy with a strand of your drying hair. Your fingers toy with the hair on his chest, enjoying the scent of your soap on his skin. Every bit of you aches but it’s a good ache, the ache that comes of hard work well done.

Neither one of you thought to turn off the radio. A sudden loud jangle of guitars and you startle, looking up into Dean’s eyes. It’s so beautifully appropriate, you both dissolve into giggles and pick up the lyrics, singing together in soft harmony.

_“Dancing days are here again, summer evenings grow . . .”_

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Songlist:  
> Motley Crue, “Kickstart My Heart.”  
> Def Leppard, “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”  
> Bob Seger, “Her Strut.”  
> Led Zeppelin, “Since I’ve Been Lovin’ You.”  
> Led Zeppelin, “Dancing Days.”
> 
> I was looking at my dashboard the other day and I noticed I didn't post anything at all for the whole of 2020, despite making significant progress on my bigass crossover fic. That just won't do. And I gotta admit, the thought of Dean in home improvement mode, all hot and sweaty, makes me feel some kinda way.
> 
> Feedback or constructive criticism welcome. darali_starscream@yahoo.com


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